


It Blinds My Eyes

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Blinds My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Caersmane. Prompt: Fog

_His presence  
among the known faces —  
evening fog_  
R.K.SINGH

 

There was a light fog hanging in the streets when John went to work that morning.

When he went out for lunch it was still foggy.

When John walked home that night the fog had become thick enough to block from view everything that was further than two meters.

John didn’t mind it much. He knew the way well enough to not really have to pay attention to his surroundings anymore. As he made his way towards his flat, John thought of the evening ahead. Dinner first - something microwaved; he didn’t cook much anymore. Then some telly. Big Brother was running again. He’d probably go to bed early. He didn’t stay up very late anymore. At least that meant he got enough sleep.

Tuesday. John reminded himself. Early January 2011. He put the key in the lock. He tried not to notice the flat, dirty-white surface of the door. He pushed away the thought of how not-safe the old warded lock was. Sherlock would probably have a fit if he saw it. It was very unlikely.

John hung up his jacket and did not think of Sherlock Holmes.

John took out a frozen Sweet&Sour Chicken, punched some holes into it and put it in the microwave. He still did not think of Sherlock Holmes.

John booted up his laptop and checked his email while he ate. Maybe he thought of Sherlock Holmes for a few minutes.

There was the usual number of spam mails and a long, rambling email from Harry. John opened it and started reading, but gave up after a few sentences. He’d read it in the morning. Eastenders was running in the background, but John had stopped following the plot-lines two months ago. It wasn’t much fun without anyone around to mock it with.

John caught himself staring into space and made a decision. He got up, grabbed his coat and slammed the front door closed after him.

The night had turned even colder and yet the fog still hadn’t lifted. Walking towards a streetlight, John had to admit that it looked rather beautiful. The tiny drops of water had frozen in the cold air and now glittered and shimmered whenever light reflected off them. John stopped to admire them, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Ice fog is very rare at temperatures warmer than −30°C,” a voice said from behind John. “It is composed of suspended particles of ice, partly ice crystals 20 to 100 μm in diameter, but chiefly, especially when dense, droxtals 12–20 μm in diameter.”

John - to his credit - did not jump. He also did not turn around. Nor did he answer.

He did, however, start walking again.

“Is this what they call ‘giving someone the silent treatment’?” Sherlock continued, stepping up so he was walking beside John.

“No. This is what they call ‘ignoring someone'. You should be familiar with the concept,” John said. Anger was burning low in John’s stomach, but he forced himself to speak calmly. There was no point in making a scene.

“Mycroft explained-,” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

“Mycroft had all my stuff moved out of our flat. _Mycroft_ had the locks changed so I couldn’t get in again. Mycroft’s _secretary_ handed me a letter telling me not to contact you or him or anyone else I associated with while living with you, followed by some vague threats as to what would happen if I didn’t follow his orders. At no time did Mycroft ever _explain_ any of those actions. Neither did you.”

“John-,”

Again, John interrupted him. “I did however do my best to _deduce_ the reasons for this sudden, forced and rather invasive change of my circumstances. Force of habit, I guess. Anyway. It’s fine.”

“John, I don’t think your conclusions are...” This time, Sherlock stopped himself. Mainly because John had stopped walking and turned to face him.

“My conclusion was,” John said, lifting his chin defiantly, “that either you or Mycroft had a good lead on Moriarty. My conclusion was that you both decided that I would be a liability if you were going to go after him. You probably thought _this_ -” John gestured vaguely at his surroundings, his _life_ now, “- would be the best solution because it would keep me safe at the same time. As for the fake obituary - yes, of course I knew it was fake - if Moriarty thought you dead, it would leave you free to investigate him without having to worry about him having you watched in return. I am concluding right now that you being here means he’s been taken care of?”

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, looking as slack-jawed as Sherlock had ever looked. Then he reached out, wrapped his hands around John’s head, pulled him close and kissed him.

It was a close-mouthed kiss, heartfelt, but nothing dirty or lingering about it.

“I’m right, then?” John asked as Sherlock pulled back and let go of him.

Sherlock smiled.

John allowed himself to look at him properly. Sherlock looked even more thin than before and a bit pale, but he seemed healthy and unhurt. That was good. The worry that had been John’s constant companion for the last two months slowly ebbed away, leaving a faint feeling of fatigue behind.

\-----------

“It still doesn’t mean that I’m not mad at you.” John said and put his beer down.

Sherlock blinked at him, turning his attention away from the other patrons of the pub and back to John. “But you get it. You came to the right conclusions, how can you be angry?”

“Because you, _and_ your damn brother for that matter, are idiots. And since you’re so smart, why don’t you try and deduce what you did wrong.” John made himself sound stern, but not mean. He wasn’t really angry anymore. Not like he had been twenty minutes ago.

Sherlock didn’t answer and they finished their beers in silence.

\----------

They were on their way home - _their_ home, not John’s empty flat - when Sherlock spoke again.

“Had I told you of my plan you would have refused to go through with it. You would have insisted on staying at my side, which would have put you in danger. Even more danger than you had already been in. I decided I would rather have you angry and disappointed than dead.”

John took his time digesting that. The fog was still making London look a lot more fantastical than it actually was. When they reached 221B Baker Street, John stopped Sherlock before he could open the door.

“I have one condition.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I’d rather be dead than not with you,” John said.

“Technically, that is not a condition. It’s a statement.”

“Sherlock.”

“Agreed.”

John reached out and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss. This time it lasted a lot longer and was definitely dirty.


End file.
